It’s taken being in quarantine for over a month to make it truly cause me agita, probably because I work from home anyway. I try to dress myself and I forget why, realize it’s so hard to decide what to wear when you’re not going to do anything but walk the dog and cook. Still, some days I make an effort and that makes all the difference, even if I’m always wearing Adidas slides and none of my favored boots, which I’ve begun to gaze at longingly. Makeup is reserved for occasion Zooms, but I’ve been losing my resolve even on that. What is the point? It’s nice never to wake up with regret because I didn’t wash my face the night before.

Because I’d just moved into this new apartment before the pandemic, it’s not finished being decorated. A patio table’s delivery, constructed by a local carpenter, has been delayed. The unfinishedness of the home and the perpetual feeling that my days are lacking something merge into a new kind of frustration I’ve never felt before. I try to focus on writing and reading. I try not to look at myself much and keep making good meals.